


Je Suis Little Mac

by MaxGrant



Category: Punch-Out!! (Video Games), Super Smash Brothers
Genre: Drama, Friendship, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:34:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23371765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaxGrant/pseuds/MaxGrant
Summary: Upset over his repeated losses and bottom-tier status in Smash, Mac has a falling out with Doc and goes to see the one fighter he knows to have experience dealing with being weak.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 25





	Je Suis Little Mac

"Quick feet, Mac. Quick feet"

"Watch your left. You gotta keep your guard flexible at all times."

"Remember, you've got speed and power on your side. Ain't nobody beating the Star Punch, that's for sure!"

"I know you had some rough times last tournament, son, but this time, you are gonna take the Smash scene by storm!"

"Keep it up! You've got this, Mac!"

"Mac!"

"Mac!"

"Mac, focus!"

"Watch out for that Dragon Punch, Mac!"

"MAC!"

"Wake up! Mac! Mac! Come on, son, you gotta get up....."

.

.

.

.

.

.

_"And in a most surprising turn of events, the last fighter for the Super Smash Bros Ultimate Tournament was revealed last night, just as Ken Masters, three-time winner of the Pan-American Fighting Tournament and champion of the Street Fighters, had scored his entry into the tournament by defeating the boxing champion Little Mac. He was then attacked and defeated by a "Pokemon", or pocket monster, from Japan named Incineroar. It seems that Incineroar, referred to as "The Heel Pokemon", had also been battling his way through the ranks, and both him and Ken Masters were able to secure an entry. Although Masters and Mac were sent to a hospital in the aftermath, both appear to be recovering in time for further matches. Now, onto further news..."_

Getting up from his seat, Jerome "Doc" Louis reached into the small table next to the hospital bed, and turned off the radio that his pupil, Little Mac, was currently listening to. 

"I...I figured you didn't wanna hear much further. How you feeling?"

Mac didn't respond. He was healed up considerably by now, with only a few additional burn marks and bandages covering him. The hospital provided to the Smash fighters had many miraculous forms of medicine, pulled from many different worlds, necessary to make sure the fighters walked out in one piece after their fights. Sometimes the sheer scale of strange things within the Smash tournament, whether they be people or places or objects or anything, was a little too much for Mac to think about too hard, and Doctor Mario's bills seemed to grow with each visit, but all things considered it was a big improvement over the times Doc had no option but to get him patched up in a veterinary hospital. 

"Here, I brought you this. Figured you wanted a change of clothes"

Doc handed to Mac a familiar pink jumpsuit. But Mac didn't move to take it. Doc put it back on his duffelbag.

"If it's of any consolation, Masters offered to foot the medical bill of his own pocket. I would have said no, but..."

"But we've been going back to this hospital so often that you used up our savings andhad to take his money."

Doc did a double take. It wasn't often that he heard Mac talk back like this, or really talk at all. Any other time he might have cracked a joke about Mac being chattier than usual, or something about Ken's Dragon Punch unscrewing his jaw wider than he thought. 

But Doc saw in Mac's face he wasn't getting anywhere with humor.

"Look kid, Ken Masters ain't a bad guy. Just cause he's loaded and acts smug don't mean he's like Macho Man. He offered to pay for your treatment, no strings attached, and he made it a point to tell me how much he respects your skill. Even asked if you wanted to spar him with again sometime. He's a World Warrior, son. There ain't no shame in losing to a guy like that."

Doc's appraisal of Ken didn't do much to lift Mac's gloomy outlook.

"At least someone respects me around here."

"Huh? What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh come on, Doc, you know what I'm talking about."

"Kid, just cause we've been through a rough patch recently don't mean people don't respect you. You are still the boxing champ after all"

"Sure, I am. Or was, before I retired. Then I come out of retirement and join this tournament, and look at what keeps happening. You said it yourself that you didn't even want to take Masters' money, but what choice did you have?"

"Mac, listen, I know-"

"No, Doc. You listen. I gotta keep hearing over and over again. "Low tier", "the worst fighter", "unviable", "trash character". I work my ass out here harder than anyone else, without any magic powers or fancy weapons to help me, and what do I got to show for it? Just last week, we had a schedule match against another one of those Pokemon. I go in, and what happens? A talking blue dog dodges my every move and wipes the floor with me. And two days before, I fight a...a thing, a thing in two dimensions that turns me into a juggling ball and kills me with a key. I was sent to the hospital last month again because SOMEONE FARTED ME TO DEATH. Do you have any idea what that's like? And don't even get me started when I tried fighting that princess with a sword, or that prince with a sword, or that blue guy with a sword, or the other two blue guys with a sword, hell why are there so many swordfighters in a fighting tourna-"

"MAC, I GET IT."

Both did a double take. Mac had never, ever ranted about his frustrations this way, and Doc had never, ever yelled at him like this before. They've had their fair share of disagreements, sure, and there was that one time Mac had the idea to knock a chocolate bar out of Doc's hand mid-match. But it was never something like this. 

Both hesitated much before saying anything, and ended up not saying anything at all. 

"I think you should go", Mac said. 

"Allright, I will. I'll let you figure stuff out on your own. You coming to the gym today?"

"No. I'll be fine."

"I know you will, son. I know."

Doc left the room, leaving Mac alone, with only the beeps of the hospital equipment to keep him company. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

" _Vous entrez maintenant dans _Aéroport de Paris-Le Bourget_. Nous esperons que vous aimez votre sejour._"

Said the speakers overhead, as Mac walked off the plane. He assumed that it referred to the airport he was currently boarding. Though he didn't speak a lick of French, Doc had given him a while ago one of those cheap handbooks turists use to ask questions and go around. Said it was important for a fighter to travel to different places if he intended to be a world champion. 

Although France wasn't exactly known for producing the best boxers competing in the World Video Boxing Association. Then again, that wasn't what Mac was here for. 

Flight had been a terribly unpleasant experience for Mac, and although he was old enough to travel by himself, having turned 18 recently, he hadn't had much experience with traveling and airport customs. He figured Doc might have gotten through it fine, but Doc wasn't here right now. 

Mac tends to forget that, boxing prodigy he may be, he's still an 18 year old, who's been pretty much living with Doc since he was 16. Mac knows how to take care of himself fine, of course. He's been doing so long before he met Doc. But he's grown a bit used to focusing just on training and letting Doc handle everything else (not that Doc ever complained. If anything, he encouraged it). 

After getting out of the airport, Mac hailed a cab. He picked up the crumpled up note from his pocket and gave the address to the cab, who took off without asking much questions. It was quite easy for Mac to go by unnoticed, despite his position within the boxing world and now within the Smash scene, although it was the latter that had been giving him much unease lately. 

The cab was instructed to head to the 15th arrondissement, specifically to Saint Lambert Square. Upon arriving, Mac paid the cab and left. He looked around for the person he wanted to meet. 

It was 4:30pm in the afternoon, and the square was very quiet as a result. The fountains were active, and some stray couples walked around them, minding their own business. Mac walked past them, and headed to the benches below the trees. 

In one of those benches sat a thin man dressed in a black sweater, with a bagette sandwich in his hands, watching the scenery with saggy eyelids. Despite his rather unhealthy appearence, he seemed well-kept and quite content at present. He was unaware of the young man currently approaching him. 

"Hey, Joe"

Glass Joe turned around and saw Little Mac, and for a brief moment his eyes flared up with fright and he reared backwards, seemingly out of instinct. He then took a deep breath, and spoke normally. For a man as proudly French as Joe was, his conversational English was quite good, even if he did slip into a heavy accent at times. 

"Ah, bonjour, Mac. I-I was just thinking when you were going to show up."

"Am I getting in the way of something?"

"No, not really. The doctor told me I was supposed to take a month's worth of rest before another match, and I recently got my jaw wrap removed. This is the first solid meal I've had in quite a while. You want a bite?"

"No, thanks."

"Oh well, more for me then."

It struck Mac as odd seeing Joe out of the environment they usually met. Of course, in those he was used to seeing Joe as either an overconfident, prancing fool, flexing off feeble muscles and chanting his name before audiences, or a gibbering, hysteric mess trying to stop further injury. One usually preceding the other. 

But here, Joe could have passed as just another nobody. Just a guy having lunch in a park, willing to share it if you ask nicely enough. He wonders how the rest of the boxers would be like if he took the time to hang out with them the way he's taken to do with Joe today. Or maybe it was just Joe that was like this. 

In truth, the only reason he had Joe's number was because Joe had given to him, along with his address. It was pretty early in Mac's career, before his first match with Bald Bull even. They had talked a bit in the locker room, mostly about their prospects regarding their upcoming matches. Mac was up against Bald Bull, and Joe was against Nick Bruiser. They weren't quite friends, but rather two boxers caught in situations they felt woefully underprepared for. Joe told him he didn't expect to walk out alive of the building that night, and asked if Mac would water his petunias back home in case he didn't. Mac thought Joe was joking at the time, but wouldn't have been shocked if he hadn't. 

And although Mac won that night, nobody was more shocked than Joe was that day, when he ended up winning. His first victory in his entire career.

Mac never really asked Joe afterwards how serious he was, or how did he even accomplish said victory. There were no televised records of said match. The WBVA made sure to scrub every trace of it out of existence, and Nick Bruiser's record was unchanged. Still, apparently said match instilled such shame on him that he never did return to the ring, where as Joe was still alive and kicking. 

Or, well, alive and being kicked.

"Well, what brings you to my lovely homeland, Mac? And where is that coach who's always near you?"

"Well, Doc and I had a bit of a misunderstanding. I figured going my own way for a few days."

"Oh, I see. I was quite surprised you could even afford to visit. I thought you would be so busy with that _magnifique_ new tournament of yours. Smash Brothers, was it?"

"Yeah. But I got let off for a few days. Their schedules are pretty flexible. I don't even really think they have one to be honest. Besides, I lost a match a few days ago and was in the hospital. My fight against Donkey Kong is only two weeks from now."

"Wait, is that the gorilla who invaded the ring and you fought before retiring?"

"That's the one."

"Oh, well, you beat him once, and I'm sure you'll beat him again, I suppose."

Mac looked at his fists rather bashfully. He couldn't believe he was out here, trying to find a way to ask _Glass Joe_ for advice, and yet here he was. 

"See, Joe, that's the problem. I don't think I can."

Joe looked aghast, almost offended over Mac's words. 

" _Pardon?_ What is this that you are saying?"

Mac was trying not to lose it.

"Oh come on, man, you know what I'm talking about! Haven't you been watching the tournament?"

"Well, no."

"I've been losing every single match I've had to fight for a long ass time now! Things weren't good even in the previous one I joined, but now it's like I can't win against anyone! Nothing I do seems to be working. No amount of training seems to work. I don't get to have magical powers, or weapons, or anything. It's just me and my fists out there, and that would be fine by me. That's just how it's always been, even before I became a boxer. Except now it isn't. A lot of people have been saying I'm the worst, weakest fighter in there, that I shouldn't even be there at all, and as much as I'd like to make them eat their words, I can't. I just...can't."

"And, and I know this is gonna sound super rude. I know this is a total dick move that I'm even asking this, but I don't got anyone else to turn to. So, I'm here to ask you."

Glass Joe inquired

"You are here to ask me, what?"

Mac straightened up and looked Joe straight in the eye.

"How do you do it?"

An awkward silence lingered between the two. It was 5pm, and by now the park was completely empty. The skies were beginning to darken as nightfall approached, and none was around to hear Mac's outburst, except Joe. 

"How do I do, what?"

"How do you deal with being, well, the weakest? When everyone around you is stronger than you and can push you around and there's nothing you can do about it. How do you cope with it?"

Joe's saggy, usually fearful eyelids straightened with an uncharacteristic steel. 

"I don't understand your question, Mac."

Mac breathed deeply. 

"Joe, again, I'm really sorry that I'm having to do this, but I'm asking you because, as far back as I've been a boxer, you have always been, in any given context, the weakest fighter in the room. It's even in your name. And now, I'm at a position where it's clear that I am the weakest fighter in the room, by far apparently, and it's, it's just not working for me, man. I'm not saying I'm gonna quit, I will keep fighting and give my all like I always have, but I gotta find a way to get over it."

Glass Joe gave a curt reply.

"Well, Monsieur Mac, I'm afraid you came all this way for nothing. If you traveled all the way to France to try and find the weakest fighter in the WBVA, you've come to the wrong person."

Mac snorted.

"Look, Joe, no offense, but there's not a single boxer active in the WVBA today that hasn't beaten you in a fight. Your record is 99 losses to one win, and god knows how you pulled that one off. I don't want to insult you, man, I'm just trying to get help."

Glass Joe straightened his spine

"Well, yes, it's true I've lost a lot of fights. I lost more fights than most fighters have even participated in. And it's true that I'm more, well, disavantaged in some areas than other boxers. Do you know what temporomandibular joint dysfunction is?

"No, I don't think so."

"Well, TMJD, _comme ils disent,_ is a medical condition that affects the joints connecting the mandible to the jaw and chewing muscles. It causes deterioration and pain even when doing basic activities like chewing, yawning, and it has some other problems too. Probably due to the concussions. I only really discovered I had it recently. That was around the time I started wearing headgear to my matches."

"Yeah, I remember."

"My doctors don't know what caused it, exactly. They don't know if it's genetics, or if it started when I took up boxing, or it only got worse due to boxing. It could have been during my match with Nick Bruiser. To be honest I don't remember winning that one.

"It could be when I tried fighting Mr Sandman and he went easy on me. Or maybe when I was 9 and I spent my uncle's booze money on boxing gloves. He really wasn't happy about that, you know", Joe chuckled.

Mac lowered his head between his hands, angry at himself for being so rude and hysterical over his problems when Joe was just trying to hear him out. 

"Jesus, Joe. I'm, I'm sorry."

" _Non, non, non_ , don't be. It's nothing that serious, really. It's not going to kill me. It just...makes some things more difficult. Boxing being one of them."

"So why do you do it? Why be a boxer?"

"Let me ask you this, Mac: why are you a boxer? I mean, how old are you? 18, 20?

"I turned 18 this year."

"So you were only 17 years old when you decided you would challenge the greatest boxers in the world and win the Championship title. Fighters at least twice your strength and skill. _Quelle folie!_ They shouldn't have even let you compete in the first place, you were a child still. And you did it anyway. Several times. Why?"

Both fighters sat in silence. The sky was darkening still as the sun set, and people started walking through the park as they left work and went home. 

"I don't really know, Joe. Fighting is my blood. It's always been my blood. I don't think I would have made it out of my childhood if it weren't. As far back as I can remember, I've been fighting and struggling my way through life. I never really cared about glory, or fans, or getting praised for it. I thought I didn't care that people looked down on me back then, but I guess I did. I guess I still do. But this isn't about that, and I don't think I know what is is either.

"I just fight. I want to fight. I live to fight. I've lived fighting, I'll die fighting. I don't think I ever really got much of a choice in the matter."

Glass Joe paused on his words. 

"You do have a choice, Mac. You retired once, right?"

"Well yeah, but it obviously didn't last. I don't think it would have. I just retired because I got tired of fame and wanted to go out in glory. But that didn't work for me, and I ended up joining a tournament full of gods and monsters and whatnot."

"See, Mac, I choose to fight. Remember when I asked you to water my petunias in case I didn't survive that match with Nick Bruiser?"

"Yeah, I really thought you were joking at the time. I guess you weren't."

"No. But I made a choice that night. I was going to fight a boxing legend and possibly die while doing it. And that choice led to my one victory. I don't care about losing 99 matches, if it means I get to taste victory once. I'll gladly lose another hundred matches, a million more, if it means I have a chance to win one of them. I choose to fight knowing every fight could be my last, knowing some days I fight just to not give up and to stay alive. Even after every doctor, every fighter, and countless people tell me I have to quit. That I should quit. Because I'm frail, cowardly, weak. Because I'm Glass Joe."

"So why do you keep going?"

"Because I do not consider myself a weak man, Mac. I prove my strength to my country, to the world every time I get in that ring, everytime I lose, and everytime I get in there again."

Glass Joe stood up from the bench.

"I keep going, because _je suis Glass Joe"_

Joe packed up his belongings.

"And that's what keeps me going. I don't know if that works for you, but it does for me."

Mac pondered his words briefly, and responded. 

"Well, I'm not Glass Joe, so that's really not gonna work for me."

Both shared a laugh.

Onlookers at the scene would have witnessed an odd scene: a short, boyish Italian-American man and a gangly French weirdo laughing at nothing in particular, then shaking hands and bidding each other farewell.   
But the park was empty, and no one was there to watch the two strongest fighters in the World Video Boxing Association part ways. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was 10pm afternoon, and Doc Louis had just finished cleaning up the gym. Ever since he had tagged along with Mac to the Smash tournament, a lot of people had taken to using the gym as training grounds. Fighters, Assist Trophies, even some of the Pokemon came to Doc. Doc turned down all offers for fulltime coaching, but he could set up group classes. It helped to pay the bills, and it helped to better get along with some of the people and not-people who hanged around. 

Doc didn't wonder too hard about where Little Mac had gone off to. He knew the boy could take care of himself, and Mac had been kind enough to let him know he was going to travel for a few days. 

Still, it was never easy. Not when he had seen the boy grow into a man right under his nose, and especially now that he was going through such a rough patch, and there was nothing Doc could do but coach him further and be there for him, whether he won or he lost. 

Doc had fallen asleep on a couch in the locker room, usually reserved for breaks. Doc was so tired he didn't even finish eating his nighttime chocolate bar, and instead it hung on the armrest, with only a bite taken out of it. 

Or, at least, it would have, but when Doc woke up at 12pm to take it, it was nowhere to be found. 

A bit confused, he looked across the room for it, and eventually he heard some noise coming out from the ring. He drowsily went to check out what it was. 

Inside the ring, he saw a little man, wearing a pink jumpsuit and green boxing gloves, skipping rope at a steady, quiet pace. A few feet away from him, a mostly eaten chocolate bar was propped up against the ring post. 

Doc smiled to himself, and went back to sleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here goes my first Smash Bros fanfic. Not really about Smash Bros so much as about a specific character.  
> I always thought Punch-Out, corny and comedic and full of stereotypes as it's known to be, always had good potential for dramatic storytelling, mostly through Doc and Mac's relationship. And I've always wanted to expand more on the characters, especially Glass Joe.  
> I hope this was enjoyable.


End file.
